Justice Served
by Working-On-Sanity
Summary: So what if James could never walk again? It was his own fault, and Brock had nothing to do with it. He didn't want to be saddled with the job of caring for him––the loss of his mobility was justice served. Jessie/James, Brock/James, Meowth/James.


**JUSTICE SERVED**

**Chapter One: **Disability

**Summary: **So what if James could never walk again? It was his own fault, and Brock had nothing to do with it. He didn't want to be saddled with the job of caring for him––the loss of his mobility was justice served. Jessie/James, Brock/James.

**Author's Note: **To hone what bit of knowledge I do have with dialogue and description, I'm working on several different stories in which a character has a physical impairment. For the mute character, I have to use little to no dialogue. For the blind character, I have to ease up on description of sights and focus more on sounds, feelings, and taste. I think this will help me, if I can manage it, so this time around, I'm giving myself the challenge of few movements from the main character, which is James. By that, I mean no hand gestures, little quirks like brushing the hair back, touching things, and so forth. That makes it more difficult for him to interact with the rest of the characters. There will be some RocketShipping, BlueShipping, and one-sided JimShipping.

* * *

><p>The mornings were never very lenient with Brock. From the very instant he crept out of his tent, shuddering in the dawn's cloak of chilly fog and dew, he knew that the sun was stifling a laugh at his weary state. What with dark patches beneath his narrow eyes and a stooped posture, he was seldom an agreeable companion in the early hours, and he made that fact known among his companions.<p>

Staggering to the stale pool of water that had collected in a dip alongside the base of an overhanging tree, Brock knelt heavily. He gave a low, whistling hiss as the icy water burned his warm hands, and tightened his shoulders as he cupped his palms, splashing the frigid liquid over his face. Not having considered bringing a towel, he simply hooked his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt, harshly rubbing the moisture from his cheeks with the rough fabric until his skin flared red.

"Alright, you guys," he barked, a drill sergeant issuing a command. "Get yourselves out of your blankets, _now_." His voice barreled through the cool air, becoming tangled in the mist before disappearing in a humming echo.

Almost before he had pulled himself up straight, adjusting the creases in his shirt, the crooked blue tent began to rustle wildly. Silhouettes careened from one canvas wall to the other, the shadows flurrying as quilts were tossed aside and shoes were jammed on. Seconds later, the flap door rattled, and Ash's disheveled head emerged from between the unzipped sheets of material.

"Is't time for breakfast already?" he asked groggily, blinking his squinted eyes in a daze. "It's still night." He tiredly looked about, and upon noticing no soup pots rumbling on a crackling fire, bestowed a venomous, accusing glare upon Brock.

"No, I haven't made anything to eat, yet," Brock confirmed, not deterred from his task of fully awakening his charges. He clapped his hands loudly, the sharp sound causing Ash to wince, shrinking back into the comfort of his tent.

"Out," Brock ordered sternly. "We have things to do today, and we can't be sitting around. You and Misty get ready, and I'll make sandwiches. We have to make a visit today."

"A _visit?_" Ash whined in disbelief, his features contorting into a well-practiced pout. "But we're on our way to the Johto League. We can't be making _visits!_"

Brock quirked an eyebrow warningly. "Ash, you've dragged me all over the region for months, now. I've followed you, cooking and cleaning up after you––I believe it would only be fair for _me _to have a day to do something."

Pacified, Ash sulked as he stared at the thatches of grass that tufted from the ground. "Alright," he grumbled, relenting, despite knowing that it had been useless to argue. "But what is it that you want to do so badly?"

"I wanted to just look around some of the markets. Buy myself some new khaki pants; maybe stop somewhere to see if there's any gourmet ingredients special to the area. Just have a day to go where I want."

"That doesn't sound so awful," Ash decided reluctantly. He lingered for a moment, then disappeared back into the confines of the tent. An instant later, he clambered out, with Misty dragging herself close behind him. Her appearance was almost as pitiful as Ash's––her red hair hung around her face in dull waves, and her cerulean eyes were almost gray with irritation.

"Gee, Brock," she griped, seating herself limply on the wet ground and snapping a purple rubber band from her thin wrist. Jerking her arms up to yank her hair into a short tail, she twisted the tie around the clump to pin it in place.

"Why did you have to wake us up so early?" she asked, her tone dense with annoyance. She leaned back, supporting her weight on her palms and crossing her ankles before her.

"I wanted you both to be ready, so we could leave before noon. We have to pack everything away, and eat, too, so I thought it might be better to get a head start."

Misty nodded, begrudgingly accepting the meager reason for her rest having been interrupted. She watched with mild interest as Brock crouched in front of his large backpack, digging through its contents to pile various food articles beside a china tray: a jar of peanut butter, a crushed loaf of bread, and bags of crisps that had been flattened beneath the pressure of the innumerable other items Brock always found necessary to carry.

As Brock extracted a knife from his pocket, tearing open the paper sack of bread and grabbing a slice to spread a thick layer of peanut butter over it, Ash shrugged into his nylon jacket––shoving two fingers into his mouth, startling Misty, he spat forth a piercing whistle. It took only a moment for a familiar, high-pitched squeal to cut into the silence as Pikachu came energetically bounding from the tent.

"Hi, Pikachu," Ash greeted, bending down to give the rotund creature an affection pat on the rump. Pikachu wriggled excitedly in Ash's embrace, its jagged tail swaying, and after allowing its blond fur to be stroked, it hooked its blunt claws into Ash's denim jeans. Hitching itself up with surprisingly little effort, it climbed Ash's body until it reached its perch on his shoulder.

Feeling more at ease with his Pokémon sitting regally atop him, Ash unearthed his gloves from his pockets, tugging them over his hands and smoothing the wrinkled leather. Crunching his fingers into a fist, he grinned appreciatively at the sensation of Pikachu's whiskers quivering against his ear.

"Here you go, Ash," Brock called––with a flick of his arm, he tossed a sandwich, which Ash lunged forward to swipe before it fell. Somewhat pleased with himself, he shuffled toward Misty, squatting beside her to chew pensively on his sandwich and pulling apart shreds of the crust to offer to Pikachu.

Finished with slathering peanut butter on another sandwich, Brock hurled it in Misty's direction, and she snatched it with much less difficulty than Ash had with his sandwich. Smirking smugly, she began to nibble delicately at the bread, savoring the sweet flavor of thick peanut butter while Ash choked his own meal down with a fervency.

Returning the knife and paper bag of bread to his knapsack, Brock absentmindedly sucked the remaining smudges of peanut butter from his fingers and wiped his hands on his slacks. He had barely roused himself to his feet before a deafening howl shot into his ears.

Quaking involuntarily from fright, he wheeled around on his heel, staring at Ash and Misty. Ash's cheeks were ballooned out, filled to capacity with half-chewed bread––Misty had frozen, holding her sandwich mere centimeters from her mouth.

"What... was that?" Brock whispered hoarsely, glancing warily into the dark, shadowed rim of the woods. His heart drummed against his ribs, shaking him, and adrenaline rinsed over his nerves to make his hands tremble. Pikachu's head had raised, its ears flicking to cup any abnormal sounds as its bristles twitched.

Scarcely had Ash stood upright, shoving one hand into his jacket pocket to retrieve a battered Poké Ball, when the shrubbery outlining the forest edge began to rustle wildly. Something thumped against the ground, the beats vaguely registering in Ash's mind as running footsteps. He paused, listening intently, when from the bushes in a bright flash of red and white burst a familiar figure.

Ash gasped, and Misty yapped in fright, scrambling backward as if retreating from an advancing insect. Abandoning thoughts of his own safety, Brock launched himself forward, squaring himself protectively in front of Ash and Misty. But even as he prepared to retrieve his knife, he froze, staring with mild confusion at the girl who was doubled over in front of him.

"Jessie?" Disturbed by this sight, Brock helped himself to several steps backward, holding his arms out at his sides to further shield the children from any impending harm. He had never witnessed any true acts of malice from Team Rocket, but he would allow no opportunities for them to do so. Though he did entertain strong suspicions of them, he felt some of his misgivings dissolve as Jessie peered up at him.

"Y––you..." She struggled to speak, and a hacking cough broke her words. She pressed her hands to her knees, bending down and choking wheezily. Brock only supposed that she had been putting all her strength into running, but he could not summon enough will to even guess what she had been fleeing from. Warily, he glanced into the woods, expecting a certain loquacious Meowth and a flamboyant young man to reveal themselves. His surroundings remained silent, save for Jessie's rapid breathing.

Gulping a mouthful of air, the woman opened her eyes, the blue irises clouded with tears. Brock went numb––she was _crying. _Jessie was crying––he didn't know her personally, but he took it as a fact that she was strong-willed, and not emotional. Yet she was weeping, and she had come to _him _for comfort.

"Twerp," she panted, her voice tweaked by a sob, "you have to... we need you... we need you to come and help us. It's terrible, twerp, it's awful... it's awful. We th––thought it would go away, but it never _did_. You can help us, if you'll come, just please... please!"

And with that final plea, she sank to her knees, wet dirt squishing around her bare skin. Her shoulders heaved as she weakly suppressed whimpers, and Brock realized that, perhaps, she was not attempting to lure them into an ambush.

"Jessie?" Cautiously, Brock edged toward her, extending his hands to guard himself. But she made no move to tackle him, nor to even touch him. Unreceptive as Brock stooped beside her, she quaked feebly, continuously murmuring strings of meaningless phrases.

"Hurts so much..." she mumbled, shaking her head. Strands of windblown red hair hung loosely over her forehead, and Brock noticed that her skin was pallid and glistening with perspiration.

"What's wrong?" Forcing his tone into an easy calmness, he patted Jessie's back firmly, urging her to explain.

Startled by the contact, she stiffened, and upon remembering exactly whom she had sought for assistance, she began to cry even more fiercely, hiccups punctuating her garbled sentences.

"You have to help us, twerp," she commanded, her sobs raspy. "It's––it's _James, _and he's hurt... he's hurt awful. He can't _move_, not a thing, not a single thing, a––and for a whole day and night he's been crying without stop, telling us how cold he is. Twerp, I can't stand seeing him hurting so badly! You have to fix him!"

His mind spun with muddied disorientation. Brock could not make any sense out of Jessie's incoherent wails; he could not quite grasp what she was trying so resolutely to describe, and this frustrated him. Ash and Misty had not yet stirred behind him, both dull with shock.

"What do you mean?" he asked slowly, the question forming on his tongue seemingly seconds before he understood what he had said. "James... what happened to him?"

Jessie swerved her head up to glare at Brock, her face lined with trails of moisture. Brock's inability to understand caused rage to overwhelm her sorrow––viciously, she snatched his shirt collar, yanking him closer and gritting her teeth as he grunted with surprise.

"Listen, you stupid twerp," she hissed, her lips slow to let the words past. "We need your help more than anything. I'm telling you this only one more time, and you better get it, and you better do your best to do what you can. James is hurt, and it's all your fault. Right now, he's laying on a be––bedroll, and he can't move. Not at all. All night, Meowth and I had to sit up, petting on him because he's scared to death! We don't have a clue about what happened, and we d––don't care what happened. All we want is for _you_ to haul your sorry backside over to where James is, and you _will _make him better."

Stunned, Brock stumbled backwards as Jessie released her grip on his shirt. He gazed dumbly at her as she furiously scrubbed the warm tears from her lashes, her face a contrasting canvas of both white and flushing red.

"Give me a second," he muttered heavily, and he staggered to where his backpack lay in a heap. Not bothering to put away the bags of chips he had tossed to the side, he hefted the knapsack over his shoulder and sluggishly turned to Ash and Misty. Suddenly, everything around him seemed to move at a tenth of normal speed, wavy, intangible, and oblivious to the panic that consumed his composure.

"Brock!" Ash exclaimed, still sprawled over the ground. "Where are you going? You aren't taking us with you?"

Brock's jaw jutted with determination. "Look, you two. This is something important that has to be attended to. In any other case, I would bring you along, but I don't entirely trust Jessie––she is a Rocket, no matter what. I want you and Misty to stay here. Don't wander off; I'll do my best to come back as soon as I can. But if I'm not back before tonight, then you guys should keep walking west, until you find a Center. If that happens, stay there until I come back. Understand?"

As if pulled by strings, Misty and Ash nodded unsteadily, their eyes twin pools of watery fear. Brock knew it was more than irresponsible to leave them alone, but if what Jessie claimed really was true, then it would only be moral to aid her in the evaluation of her teammate's condition.

"I'll see you later," Brock offhandedly said in departure. "If you're hungry, you can eat those chips. Don't fight while I'm gone." And with those orders, he left, following Jessie as she impatiently shoved her way through the dense bushes, sniffling and hiccuping.

* * *

><p>"Come on, Jimmy. Open your mouth, okay? A little more. This'll taste pretty nasty at first, but it'll help you feel better if you'll just suck it down."<p>

Awkwardly, Meowth clenched his fat paw around the glass bottle of elixir––he had no idea as to exactly what it was, but he could read the large block letters on the label that spelled "pain-reliever." And when he had tentatively smelled of the medication, it had singed his whiskers, leading him to believe that it was pure fire in the form of a foul-smelling liquid. If the substance did anything, it would sear the aches right from James's body, or at least draw his attention to the pain in his throat.

Exerting all his concentration into clumsily dipping a spoon into the medicine, Meowth carefully balanced the utensil between his large fingers. The potion was thick and yellow, more similar to lotion than fluid.

"A'right, now, open up." Unwillingly, James parted his lips a small degree, and Meowth seized his chance, pushing the round edge of the spoon into his mouth. James's reaction was not immediate, but as he savored the flavor, rolling the jelly over his tongue, he fell into hysteria.

"Meowth!" He gagged, his eyes glazing over as flags of scarlet erupted in his cheeks. He choked on a strangled cry, and pressed his head back into Meowth's lap.

"That tastes like _fire_! It burns like you wouldn't _know _what!" He squeezed his eyes shut, tears soaking his skin as his tongue arched against the roof of his mouth, the flesh scorched and sore.

Gently, Meowth rested his paw on James's forehead, smoothing the creases from his brow. "I know. But it'll help you. You'll be able to sit up, soon, I'm sure." Absentmindedly, he stroked James's long bangs away from his face, feeling the smoothness beneath the pad of his paw.

"Don't you be cryin' like that, now," he scolded. "It ain't goin' to help you, any. Just be quiet, and Jess'll be comin' in any second with a doctor or some kind'a other practitioner."

Meowth continued to talk soothingly, his purrs succeeding in calming James. But no matter how consoling he seemed to James, he could not ease his own fluttering nerves. His knees hurt, not only from having been sitting in one place for an entire day and night, but because the weight of James's head pressed his heels to the cold floor. It had been something wiser than an instinct that advised him to prop James's head up, keeping his neck from craning unnaturally on the flat floor––rather, it had been some sort of premonition, commanding him to sacrifice his own comfort to keep James in a suitable position.

James snuffled quietly, and Meowth looked down, a pang of remorse biting the lining of his chest. James's eyes were half-closed, dusky with weariness––Meowth felt guilty for being focused on his own discomforts. Not only had he and Jessie stayed awake the entire night, the sound of James's distressed whimpering prodding them from the relief of sleep, but James himself had not been given the chance to sleep. He had lain motionless on the layer of threadbare blankets for hours; Meowth snagged his lower lip with his teeth. Even if James had grown restless, wishing to roll over or to flop onto his stomach in his characteristic pose, he couldn't have done so.

"Oh, James," Meowth sighed, rubbing James's forehead with more fervor. "You messed up big-time, didn't you, pal?"

James exhaled shakily, the cord of his throat jerking as he swallowed back a whine. "I don't know. I guess. I don't even know what it was I did."

He stayed silent for a few long moments, as if chewing on the option of letting all his harbored fears loose. Then, his expression crumpled, and he began to blabber without restriction, all his anxieties pouring forth.

"What's happening to me? What's wrong? This has never, ever happened before. I'm scared, Meowth. Really, really scared. I feel like something's wrong... but i––it's like I can't take it in. I can't feel it. I _know _it in my head, but the rest of me doesn't think so. My mind keeps working, telling me what's going on, but I can't do anything about it. And it's terrifying me. What if I won't be able to sit up again? What if I won't be able to... "

Meowth tightened his jaws, James's description of his hurt igniting a warmth within him that he always believed to have been suppressed. He turned, staring dully out the smudged glass of the window. Sunlight streamed in, filtering through the film of dust and slathering odd patches of orange brightness across the floor. Somehow, the sight made Meowth want to scream––how could such a cheerfulness dare to peek in on his sorrow? The light almost seemed to mock James, taunting him with its carefree happiness.

Furiously, Meowth leaned against James's wet cheek, shadowing his face and tucking one large paw behind his tangled bangs. He combed his claws through the long locks, meticulously arranging each strand and wincing sympathetically when he hit a snarl. James's eyes fluttered closed as he relaxed into Meowth's touch.

"That's right," Meowth whispered encouragingly. "Don't think 'bout what's ailin' you, Jimmy. Just be quiet, now. I ain't goin' to leave you alone. Everything'll be okay, you'll see. I wouldn't leave you for nothin'."

_I'm promisin' you that, at least. _Meowth once again cast an unsure glance toward the squares of sunlight that danced over the floor, watching the patterns of gray shadows erratically flicker to and fro.

* * *

><p>"<em>Meowth!<em>"

Startled, Meowth jolted upright, blinking blearily. His whiskers quivered as he listened, dazed by the loud voice that had irately shouted his name. Protectively, he held James's head closer to his stomach, as if to guard him from potential danger.

"Meowth! What are you doing in there? Hurry up and open the door!"

Meowth groaned beneath his breath, understanding. Although they lived in a dilapidated trailer home that could have easily been entered by anyone, Jessie had made certain to lock the door before embarking on her quest to find a doctor. Meowth supposed she should have been commended for her thoughtfulness.

"Give me a second," he called, though it was useless to do so. He kept his voice barely louder than a hiss, refusing to stir James from the sleep he desperately needed. Cautiously, he slid his paws beneath James's neck, easing one leg from beneath him, then the other. Scooting away, he used one hand to wad James's uniform jacket into a ball before gently lowering his head to rest on it.

As he roused himself to his feet, he nearly stumbled, flailing and lurching forward. He scarcely had rooted his claws into the wall for support when Jessie's voice scraped through the silence once more. Irritatedly, Meowth began to twist his leg, willing the sensation back into his nerves. He hadn't expected to be so numb, and he growled with frustration as he wobbled into the adjacent room.

Leaping up, he hooked his paws over the doorknob, his weight turning it into its unlocked position. He dropped to the floor with a barely audible thump, curling his tail around his haunches as he strained to catch snippets of the conversation Jessie was having.

"...and if you tell _anyone_, I'm going to kill you," she muttered, slamming her shoulder into the door. It burst open, the flimsy sheet of metal rattling into the wall and bouncing back with a shudder. If Jessie noticed the miniature crater the impact had created in the drywall, she made no comment about it.

"Hi, Meowth," she greeted glumly, and Meowth felt his heart sink deeper into his innards as she pressed her lips together in a grim line. She lifted herself over the raised threshold, her boots caked with mud. Meowth only had a fleeting second to guess whom she had brought for help––a long shadow stretched over the linoleum, and following it, Brock entered the trailer.

Meowth curled his toes into the floor, stunned. Each thread of his fur tingled, as if he had been doused with a generous amount of cold water. His throat constricted, and he stared up at Jessie in speechless horror.

"W––what's that for?" Jessie defensively wrapped her arms around herself, adamantly squaring herself on the wrinkled doormat. Though she radiated confidence, Meowth couldn't overlook how her dirt-smeared knees shook.

"Jess," he softly said, and his subdued tone immediately melted Jessie's stern attitude. She gazed down at his hunched figure, her blue eyes squinted in shared somberness.

"Jess, we can't." Meowth choked, but quickly attempted to hide the prelude of tears by a curt cough. "We can't bring this guy in here. He––he's a _twerp_. Why did you get him, Jess, _why? _I thought you were out finding a doctor, someone who could help James. Why did you come back with a kid, with one of the _twerps, _no less? What were you thinking? James is going to..."

He stopped, not wishing to give away any more information on their personal lives than he already had. Brock awkwardly stood in the doorway like a poorly-carved statue, his eyebrows knit crossly and his mouth turned in a scowl. Meowth realized that Brock had not willingly come, and felt just as insecure with the situation as Meowth himself did.

"I meant to get a doctor, Meowth," Jessie admitted, clasping her hands to hold them against the front of her thighs. "I was thinking of James the entire time... really, I was. I wouldn't have brought the biggest twerp if I thought he wouldn't be able to help. But he's so good at tending to Pokémon, and I guessed that maybe he would be just as good at fixing sick people."

Behind her, Brock opened his mouth to protest, but closed it as Meowth rose from his sitting position.

"And... and you have to think of expenses, too," Jessie added wearily, as Meowth stormed into the connecting room, disappearing around the narrow corner. "There's no way we would have been able to pay a real doctor. You know that, Meowth."

Upon receiving no reply, Jessie swung her venomous glare to bore into Brock's narrow eyes. He stiffened, subtly digging his heels into the ground to avoid being easily shoved away.

"Listen, you," Jessie spat, squeezing her fingers into a fist threateningly. "I trusted you enough to bring you here. You're stepping on our ground, kid. James means the world to me, and so does Meowth. I'll do what's necessary to keep them from being hurt. And if you even try to mess with either one of them, I swear, I'll wear you into a rag thin enough to thread needles with. Now before you do anything, I want you to pay attention to what I'm saying. I'm going to let you see James, and you need to do whatever it takes to get him up again. I'll give you whatever you want if you can just help him."

And just as the last sentence dropped from her lips, Brock knew that, for all her bold talking and heavy warnings, she was afraid. She had resorted to begging, something that, yesterday, he would have never anticipated. Deep inside, buried beneath his worry, he knew that if he didn't assist the Rockets, he would regret it for as long as he lived.

"I'm sorry." Roughly, Brock shoved his hands into his pockets, barely acknowledging the distant noise of Meowth's agitated grumbling. "I'm sorry for what you're going through. I didn't intend to cause more trouble. But I told you I'd help, so I'll do my best. And I don't expect anything from you. You shouldn't have to give me anything."

Dumbfounded, Jessie stared at him, as if attempting to convince herself that he was indeed being truthful. Her eyes shone like pinpricks of ocean behind the messy wisps of hair that fell over into her face, and abruptly, she spun around.

"Come on," she said gruffly, locking her arms over her prominent chest. "And be quiet while we're around James."

Brock sighed through his nose, lifting his knapsack over his shoulder and trudging through the small, cluttered kitchen space. Vaguely, he absorbed the appearance of his surroundings––for the first time, he was stricken by sympathy. He felt _sorry _for these penniless, miserable people, who had no other option but to live in a trailer that could have competed with a cardboard box in terms of comfort. He shook his head in disgust at the cracked plaster walls, the light bulb that was suspended from the ceiling by a rope of multicolored wires, the steel sink basin that was marred by streaks of copper rust.

Each step he took caused the floor to dip, and he was almost nervous that he would plunge through the very bottom of the trailer. He observed the condition of the linoleum, mildly surprised that it was neatly swept. Before he had finished his scrutiny, he was lead into an even smaller room, and he blinked in the sudden dimness.

"Careful." Meowth's sharp voice made a chill graze Brock's spine. "Make a wrong move and you'll drop on the spot."

Brock idly wondered what that meant as he shrugged off the burden of his knapsack, dangling it by its wide straps. Lowering it to the seat of the chair that was propped against the wall, he fumbled to unzip it, parting the lining of the pockets in search of his gloves. It was at that moment that one of the most pitiful cries imaginable rent his forced calmness.

"Jessie!" James's voice was rippled with relief, high-pitched and wobbly. Brock imagined that the most suitable scene to match the sound would be one of a melancholy child holding out his arms to be caught up by his mother. He wrinkled his nose furiously, abandoning his search for gloves and standing up.

If Brock had been given one word to describe James, he would have chosen 'pathetic.' The young man looked more wretched than Brock could comprehend. His mussed hair hung limply around his cheeks, and his eyes were red from long sessions of mournful crying. But as frightened as he looked, he never budged from his position of lying prone on the thick pile of blankets. He seemed fidgety, as if waiting to bounce up and barrel from the bed, but some invisible chain bound him to the thin carpet.

"Shh, don't say nothin'," Meowth crooned, his snout inches from James's lips. James sucked in a hungry breath, and the sunlight glinted off the specks of perspiration that beaded on his forehead. A flush of heat spread over his cheeks, and Brock helplessly watched as he whimpered in a show of panic.

Meowth shot Brock an accusing glare, his pupils stretching into slits before he cupped one paw over James's temple, gently turning his head to the side.

"Look at me, Jimmy," he demanded, stern yet tender. "We have somebody here to check up on you. Don't be scared. He ain't goin' to hurt you, alright? Breathe easy, now."

Impulsively, Jessie shoved one hand beneath the quilt that enveloped James, grasping his fingers tightly. "I'll stay here, too, James. Just hold still while the biggest twerp makes you better."

Brock cringed, the confidence in Jessie's tone doing more damage to his conscience than any physical abuse. How could she and the Meowth say, with such trust, so _knowingly_, that he was capable of healing James? Their faith in his abilities was not uplifting, but rather, a fatal blow. He slunk to the bedroll, squatting beside James's prostrate form.

"H––hi, James. It's Brock," he murmured lamely, holding his palms out to ensure Jessie and Meowth that he had not been concealing any form of weaponry. Slowly, he pinched the edge of the blanket between his thumb and forefinger, peeling it away from James's sweating body.

Meowth bristled, and Brock hastened to ease his rising annoyance. "I only need to see if anything's out of whack. I'm not going to hurt him."

James gazed at Brock, his green eyes cloudy and unfocused. "Biggest twerp?" Brock braced himself for a loud display of temper, but instead, James watched him absentmindedly, too drowsily weak to protest. He seemed almost fascinated, like a toddler watching a nurse press the tip of a vaccination needle into his arm in spite of knowing that it would bring pain. Brock tentatively hovered his hands over his hip, timidly touching the curve of his side.

Jessie clenched James's fingers, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles, though knowing that he could not feel the gesture. She could feel her own skin crawling in response to Brock's prodding, and a hesitant gauging of Meowth's expression proved that he thought likewise. His muzzle was creased in a wordless snarl, his whiskers twitching in time to his pulsing heartbeat.

Brock's hands skimmed over James's hip, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on locating the source of his illness. He felt no abnormal warmth nor odd angles; he pressed his hands on James's belly, moving upward, nudging his fingertips between each dip between his ribs.

_I'm touching him––I'm touching James, _Brock chanted, trying to convince himself of the fact. It made his fingers burn as they became lathered in the sweat that plastered James's blouse to his flat chest. The entire time, James never shied away or tensed. He was still and lax, much like a plush doll that had been forgotten on the porch step. If Brock's examination did anything, it was to relax James––his eyes were closed, his thick dark lashes resting on his smooth cheeks. The remains of his tears glistened like miniscule diamonds, and Brock swallowed hard as he withdrew his hands.

"I––I don't think there's any thing messed up," he stammered. "I mean, I can't feel any broken bones or inflammation. I don't know what's wrong with him––um, maybe if you told me what's been happening, I could figure it out."

Unable to refrain from being close to James, Meowth edged closer, the charm on his forehead sparkling with possessiveness. The slightest of affectionate smiles lifted his mouth, and he didn't once shift his attention to Brock as he began to speak.

"The only thing that could've happened to him was when we blasted off yesterday mornin'," he said. "'Course, Jess and I wasn't watchin' him, really, but we did see 'im when he fell down, hittin' the riverbank. We didn't think much of it, then, because we get beat around all the time and we turn out okay. But when me and Jess finally was able to get out'ta the bushes, we saw Jimmy still layin' in the same place. He's a lazy sissy, but he always gets up."

Even as he said it, he pinned his ears to his scalp, startled by the claim.

"Like I told you, twerp," Jessie added quietly, "he can't move. And as you can see, he can't feel anything, either. It's like... never mind." She shook her head, stubbornly denying Brock the opportunity to question her statement. "And it's not that I'm worried or anything, it's just that... well, if he's going to be an invalid, he'll hold us back. I can't baby him forever. Meowth probably would, but I can't."

Brock was surprised by the bluntness with which she discussed her teammate's health. There was no trace of carelessness in her words, but she acted so _sensible_. Brock could honestly say that he admired her––she remained staunch, not swayed from her goal by James's hurt. It was too apparent that she was tormented by his condition, but nonetheless she kept herself in check. She had a strength that Brock could never hope to have.

"Jessie," he murmured, his mouth dry and numb. "If this happened to him after getting hit, then he may not ever get... any better."

The realization fell upon all three of them like a carton of boulders. Only James, the poor pitiful creature, Brock noticed, was unaffected by the announcement, sweetly oblivious to their shock. He slept, making up for the hours lost during the night, while Meowth and Jessie crouched beside him, gaping in disbelief.

"I should have known it," Jessie muttered, quickly recovering. "I shouldn't have brought you here. Meowth was right, James needs a real doctor. Someone who can make him better instead of just feeling him up and labeling him a lost case."

"No! No, that's not at all what I meant! I only told you what's most likely to be wrong with him. I didn't mean for it to sound like I was just tossing him aside. Why would I have reason to?" Dizziness swept through Brock's skull, and he scrambled to his feet, his tall frame looming above the Rockets.

"That can't be it," Meowth weakly protested, his tail drooping. "James won't be like this forever. He's lazy, but he's got a bunch of things to do. He's got'ta cook and wash 'is clothes and finish unpacking our suitcases. A––and he told me he's got'ta tape a whole shoebox full of new bottle caps to his cork board. He won't be able to do none of that if he can't move."

"I could be wrong," Brock offered, the odd sensation of tears festering in his eyes. "I hope I am. But that's the only thing I can think of. I wouldn't have told you if I thought there wasn't a chance of that being his problem."

Meowth lunged forward, wrapping his arms around James's neck and shaking him from the recesses of sleep. James gave a soft huff of appreciation before blinking, dazed by the rude awakening. He didn't object as Meowth squeezed him, the rough fur prickling his sensitive skin.

"Please get up, Jimmy," Meowth begged. "Show us that you ain't goin' to be bedridden. Show the twerp he's wrong. Get up!"

And for the first time Brock had seen, James regarded Meowth with apprehension. Silence permeated the room as James raised his head, and with a drawn-out moan, he pressed backwards into the jacket pillow. His teeth ground together with effort, or agony, or perhaps both, and he gave a drained sigh as he sank into Meowth's arms, ignorant of all the hope he had smothered.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>If the mess about James's paralysis seems unclear, then it's meant to be so. His out-of-itness was intentional, maybe too much so; Meowth _did _dope him up on pain-killer. Kudos if you got the Tom Sawyer reference there.

I'll go more into detail about how James got hurt and how it will affect him later. This was difficult for me to write, so I'm not sure what it's overall affect will be. I hope something comes out of it, though, because I've been raiding the library for research on quadriplegia. Also, hurray for BlueShipping, RocketShipping, and JimShipping, all of which will be in this monstrosity. At least it's not all at once, right?


End file.
